


The Spirit of Crail

by Ebony_Draygon



Category: Gloryhammer (Band)
Genre: Aftermath of Violence, Gen, Hopeful, Refelction, Resurrection, Space 1992, do holograms count as resurrection?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-01-08
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:14:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22173901
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebony_Draygon/pseuds/Ebony_Draygon
Summary: Ser Proletius was the greatest Grandmaster of Crail it has ever known. Now the fallen knights of Crail call for him to take up arms once more and a little thing like him having died centuries ago is going to deter a certain magical wizard.
Comments: 9
Kudos: 13





	The Spirit of Crail

In the ruins of the Triton fortress of the Templar Knights of Crail, a powerful spell was being prepared. The dark, cavernous chamber was lit only by the flickering blue light of the rune circle. Occasionally a green spot of light would move through the darkness with an electric whine towards the hooded figure at the head of the ritual. The figure would inspect each item the robotic lights brought him either accepting their cargo or sending them back. At last the figure seems satisfied with his preparations. The whirring lights move as one and each take a point around the runic circle. In the dull blue light metallic chassis and robotic limbs reveal the true nature of the dancing lights that aided the mysterious individual. With the robots in place, the being raised their arms, revealing pale arms that seemed almost goulish in the blue light. With a low chanting, the light of the rune circle grew stronger. Crackling, fire-like energy crawled along the robots stationed dutifully around the circle. As the fire spread the robots themselves began to glow and pulse, powering the ritual further. In the centre of the circle a shape began to materialise; its form flickering like a bad TV reception.

“Come on, you bastard,” growled the wizard (though he preferred the term magus when it was required). His chanting took on a fervent energy, forcing the cryogenetical fire to rise higher. The robots were now beacons that bathed the chamber in a pulsing blue light. The form in the circle stabilized details now distinguishable. A bald head, ancient armour, a sword wound through his heart-. “No, too far, dial it back a bit there,” murmured the magus. With a twist of the cloaked figure’s hand the wound vanished from the figure of light. Satisfied he cut the spell loose.

The being of light gave a sudden gasp as he regained awareness. Immediately he collapsed to his knees, gasping as if he had just run a marathon. A hand flew to his chest then patted around in confusion as the wound he was expecting was not there.He looked up to stare at the shadowed eyes of the wizard.

“Damn you, Ralathor,” the figure of light rasped, “you promised. You swore that you would let us rest when our time came.”

“I swore I wouldn’t use necromancy on you,” replied the hermit as he folded his arms, “and I think you will find techno-cryogentical hologramatical interface is not necromancy.”

“Your words are nonsense but the fact remains..” the hologram pulled himself to his feet and scowled at the hooded hermit of Cowdenbeath, “you gave your word to let us rest and yet you have pulled me back from death.”

“If I had an alternative, Proeltius, I would have taken it.”

The ghost of light paused. He glanced down at his hand composed of green-blue light, to the glowing metal minions that kept the ritual running until their tiny nuclear hearts ran dry. He looked beyond the circle to the chamber itself, the technology that dotted its walls far beyond anything he had ever seen. But there was one thing he recognised stamped onto the dusty chrome: the sigil of Crail.   
“Ralathor,” he said softly, “what happened?”

Ralathor did not reply. Instead he raised his hand to beckon the holographic knight to follow before he turned and walked into the gloom beyond. Proletius paused briefly at the edge of the ritual circle; he was never overtly comfortable around magic. Cautiously he stepped over the runes. Nothing happened. He quickened his pace to catch up to the shadowy hermit. The rough hewn stone cast twisted shadows as he passed, the light of his body throwing decades old masonry work into sharp relief before fading once more into blackness as he passed. The pair walked on, the only sound the quiet footsteps of Ralathor echoing off the stones, the only light the glow of Proeltius’s hologram body. 

There was no fanfare as they stepped out of the tunnel into the ruins and rubble of the fortress. Grey stone was scorched with the blast of chaos magic. Pillars lay on their side, snapped as if they had been nothing but twigs. Fallen blocks of masonry suffered the deep grooves of goblin talons with the dark stain of old blood completing the grim redecoration. Tattered banners feebly offered a final salute over the knights that had once called this place their home. Proeltius starred in numb horror. Raising his hand to one of the bloody slashes he saw how the stain below it seemed to slump to the side and then rise above the claw marks. The knight who had fallen here had stood tall after receiving a mortal wound, giving all that they had to fight back. His hand curled into a fist. He had seen enough battlefields to recognise a massacre when he saw one.

“How many?” he demanded. When the hermit said nothing he turned to face him with a snarl. “How many!”

“All,” Ralathor said quietly. “Every last Knight Templar of Crail.” All save Ser Regulon - and he had only been saved the same grim fate by being absent at the time; reporting to Dundee the threat that was making its way to the planet of knights. A threat that had arrived and left before reinforcements could arrive to help them. Ralathor watched as the hologram of Proletius began to flicker with pent up rage and grief. For the old knight it was as if his long-dead heart had been ripped from his chest. He stood in what should have been a shining bastion of justice, a testament to the Knights of Crail; mighty enough to have conquered the stars! To be brought back to see the accomplishments of his beloved order would have been a true gift (though he would never tell the damned hermit that; he might get ideas). Instead he had been brought to this dark future where his order was wiped from existence and all that remained of it were cold ruins and old blood. Which begged the question…   
“Why did you bring me here? Why break your word and pull me back from the grave as a ghost of light only to show me the destruction of my order?”

“Because Angus needs you.”   
“Fiend! Did you--”   
“Prince Angus McFife the thirteenth,” interrupted the hermit, correcting the Crailian knight’s assumption. “A lot has changed but some things never do; he has need of you and the Knights of Crail, to stand by his side in the battle to come.”   
Proletius looked at the ruins around him. “One knight will be of little use to his highness.”

“Is this defeat I am hearing?” mocked Ralathor, folding his arms. “The legendary hero of Crail, its fabled Grandmaster, is giving up?” The hermit didn’t flinch as a knife made of light was thrown with deadly accuracy clipping his hood before shattering into into glittering motes when it hit the wall behind him. He remained impassive as the hologram of his old companion stalked forward standing close enough that Ralathor was glad he was wearing sunglasses.   
“I will never give up,” snarled Proeltius. “As long as I am able to stand, the Knights of Crail will stand. As long as I draw breath we shall not be defeated. As long as even one of us remains to pick up the banner of Crail we. Will. Fight!”

“Excellent, follow me,” Ralathor said, turning from the specter of rage and heading through the ruins. Finding himself on the backfoot, Proeltius followed before fully realising what he was doing. Beyond the tumbled stones and debris was a training yard. It had been cleared of any rubble and there… there were people. Citizens from all across the Galactic Empire of Fife. They stood in formation going through drills that he recognised instinctively. He had helped  _ design  _ some of the training patterns that he now saw performed in front of him. At the front of the trainees stood the last remaining Spaceknight of Crail, his tabard flapping in the astral breeze as he shouted out commands. The would-be knights were not perfect; there were stutters and hesitations in their pursuit to follow their drill sergeant's orders. But there was one thing that Proeltius saw in each and every one of them that made up for that: determination.

“So I may have fudged the truth a bit when I said that all the knights were gone,” Ralathor said, leaning against a wall and watching the training. “What was it you were saying? ‘So long as even one of you remains’. Well, just one did. But what they really need is a Grandmaster. The Spaceknights are gone but the legend that inspired them, well…” The hermit turned to look at the stunned hologram of the ancient warrior. “That’s a little bit harder to kill.”

“The more things change,” Proeltius murmured. He stepped out of the shadow of the ruins into full view of the training yard. There was a ripple as the trainees turned to look upon the hologram hero of light. Realising his students were no longer paying attention to him, Ser Regulon turned. Knight of old stared at the last survivor of that original legacy. The silence was broken as Ser Regulon raised his fist to his chest and gave it a double tap before raising his arm: the traditional and ancient salute of Crail.

“For Crail,” Ser Regulon said, head held proud. One by one, the trainees behind him copied the salute and chant.

“For Crail!”

“For Crail!”

“For Crail!”

Ser Proeltius watched as the entire training ground filled with the chant. A sound he had heard centuries ago spoken with the same passion and power. He raised his hand, and slowly a hush descended over the field.

“Mighty warriors of the galaxy,” he proclaimed, “You have proven yourselves to be mighty indeed!” He looked up to the brilliant blanket of stars above them. Faintly, he saw something shifting within those dancing lights. He raised his arm and gave a piercing whistle. The stars churned and morphed as from the tapestry of space the beat of eagle wings was heard. The others on the field staggered in the force of mighty winds (even Ralathor was forced to grab his hood to prevent it being blown back) as mighty wings brought its owner down to perch on the ruins . A head turned and set a piercing eye the colour of an exploding nebula on the humans before it. Ser Proeltius smiled. Legends always said that the greatest warriors were immortalized in the stars; why should his loyal eagle have been any different? He turned back to the trainees.

“Now, who of you will join me in my Space Knights of Crail?”

The cheer was deafening. Once again the cheer “for Crail” rang out amongst the ruins. From where he stood, Ralathor smiled. Another piece in place to aid the Prince in the fight ahead. Another thorn in the side of Zargothrax. Another old friend to fight beside once more.

The more things changed, the more they really did stay the same.

**Author's Note:**

> And at last I start to get around to posting the stuff I wrote during nanowrimo! This was an idea that had been noodling around since I first listened to the space 1992 album because just how would a knight from 992 cope with the culture shock of suddenly being a thousand years in the future; not to mention seeing the destruction of his order. With an added dose of our favourite mysterious hermit to give poor old Ser P something familiar to latch onto!
> 
> A big thank you to my beta reader [Lavender_Persimmon305](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lavender_Persimmon305/pseuds/Lavender_Persimmon305) (tumblr: [tellmeoflegends](https://tellmeoflegends.tumblr.com/)). And sorry not sorry for making you weep whilst reading this!


End file.
